The Holy Murders
by afterall
Summary: In the horrors of Voldemort's service, Draco's mind breaks. Now, can Harry and Hermione save him or will the Dark Lord's machinations drag him even deeper into insanity? Cannon until end of HBP. HBP spoilers.
1. No Ram for Isaac

Chapter One: No Ram for Isaac

Hunger twisted a knife in Draco's stomach as he paced back and forth across the thick floral rug. It was a beautiful room with ornate cherry furniture, and hardwood floors. Rich tapestries hung from the walls and the high four-poster was covered in burgundy silk sheets. Draco figured he would be quite comfortable, if the door had not been locked.

It had been twenty-one hours since he'd arrived at the old Riddle mansion. Twenty-six hours since he'd had anything to eat or drink. Sixteen hours since he'd seen another human being. Unless, of course, you counted _him. _

"Draco, why don't you sit? I can see you don't have much energy left." The old man smiled gently through his thick silver beard, his eyes twinkling behind his thin spectacles.

God, how Draco hated that smile. It ripped through his insides in guilty pangs, far worse than any he'd felt over the past year. He'd let himself be led astray, and his sins were now irreversible. He turned to the old man and shook his head.

"Come now, lad. Please, rest."

"I didn't kill you." Draco refused to look up.

"I'm sorry, my boy, but I must insist. You did." Albus Dumbledore was indeed a dead man. Draco had seen his body laid out at the base of the North Tower, broken and bleeding.

"No!" Draco stopped pacing, turning to shout at the man. "It was Snape. Snape's curse. Not mine!"

"Even so, it was your intent. Your planning made it possible." The Dumbledore-phantom moved to sit on the bed and patted the sheets at his side. "But it's all over now, so come and have a rest." Dumbledore had repeated his alternating accusation and invitation mantra continuously over the past sixteen hours. Ever since Snape had been summoned to the Dark Lord's side.

"Why are you doing this?" Draco mumbled hopelessly, burying his face in his hands. "Why won't you just leave me be?"

"I'm watching you."

"But… Why don't you hate me?" Draco's agony was turning to anger as he lifted his head to glare at the old man. "If I am responsible for your death, why the kindness? What exactly do you want from me?"

Dumbledore just chuckled. "I'm not angry, because I'm not like you." The old man began to hum. He smiled, admiring the room's wealthy décor, his attention fully taken from the boy in front of him.

"Well?" Draco demanded, "What am I supposed to do?"

Dumbledore continued to hum, his tune wandering in inconclusive phrases.

"Answer me!"

The old man's eyes never even settled on Draco's face.

Draco growled, stomping back and forth across the small floor. "Are you here just to torture me? You can't be watching me. I can't _do _anything. I can't get out!" The man's unresponsiveness was kindling for his rage. "Tell me what I'm supposed to do! If you won't talk to me, than why are you here? Leave me alone! Go! Get out! STOP TRYING TO MAKE ME FEEL GUILTY!" Draco was screaming at the top of his lungs, unable to hear the door open behind him.

Pansy Parkinson stood with the door ajar, listening to her friend berate thin air. She held a wooden tray with hot soup, bread and a glass of pumpkin juice: an all too late dinner for the mansion's restless prisoner. The Dark Lord had yet to decide Draco's fate, so Lucius had taken it upon himself to make sure his son was at least fed. Now, standing in the hall with food in hand, on the senior Malfoy's orders, Pansy shivered with cold realization. Draco Malfoy was decidedly mad.

_x x x x x x x x x x x x x_

It had been one week since Draco arrived at the Dark Lord's headquarters. Three times every day, Pansy had dutifully brought him a meal and led him out to use the toilet. She'd never seen such bizarre behavior in a person. She'd open the door to find him yelling in the direction of the bed, curled up asleep on the floor in the corner behind the wardrobe, or staring vacantly into space.

"Draco," she called softly as she opened his door for breakfast on the seventh day. "I've brought you some porridge." She looked down at the floor to find him flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. He seemed to startle from some reverie and sat up, smiling at her.

"Thank you, Pansy." He reached out and took the bowl from her hands, his cold fingers brushing against hers, sending a shiver up her spine.

"Draco, if you wanted to lie down, why didn't you lie on the bed?" She'd never seen him once approach the big piece of furniture that took up most of the room and her curiosity had been nagging at her for most of the week.

Draco stared at her as if she were a complete idiot. "Because _he's _there, and I don't want to be anywhere near him." It was amazing how someone sprawled on the floor with dirty clothes and tangled hair could look so condescending. His demeaning gaze made Pansy quite uncomfortable, so she decided to let his strange declaration stand unchallenged.

"I'll be back in a little while to take you to the toilets," she mumbled, backing out of the room. As she closed the door behind her, she made up her mind. Draco's behavior was beyond abnormal. He couldn't be left in that room to his own devices. He needed help.

It was just past nine, so Pansy figured the Dark Lord would most likely be down in the parlor, conferring with his most trusted followers. If she were lucky, Lucius would be there as well.

She walked quietly down the narrow back stair and into the kitchen. Several house elves dropped their cooking and turned to bow, a silent request for orders. Waving a hand dismissively, she continued past them into the dining room. Before the curtained glass doors on the other side of the room she paused and listened.

No voices were coming from inside the parlor. Cautiously, she pulled the curtain aside and peered through the glass panel. There, the Dark Lord stood, alone, gazing out a large bay window. The morning sunlight poured through the window only to vanish in a cloud of darkness that emanated around black robed figure before her. The ghastly man looked so out of place in his light blue chintz surroundings. Pansy would have found it funny if fear hadn't caused her knees to start trembling and her jaw to lock up.

Deciding this would be the best chance she'd get, Pansy dropped the fabric of the curtain and knocked twice on the wooden frame of the double doors.

"Enter," the Dark Lords deep, intimidating voice sounded from inside the parlor.

Pansy pulled the door open and, taking a step forward, immediately fell to her knees. "My Lord," she mumbled into the carpet.

"Stand up, child." The Dark Lord's voice was almost a purr. It made Pansy's stomach turn and she fought to keep down her lunch.

Pansy stood, keeping her head bowed.

"Was there something you wished to tell me?" He took a step forward and pressed his long white fingers under her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes.

"I-it's about Draco, my Lord." Pansy stammered. "I t-think he's gone m-mad!"

The Dark Lord stared into her eyes for a moment longer. She could feel him probing through her thought, calling up images of Draco's strange behavior.

"I see," he murmured, withdrawing from her mind. "You aren't to return to his room, Pansy. He will be leaving here shortly and I won't have his departure compromised."

"Yes, my Lord."

"And you will not speak of this conversation, or of Draco's condition to anyone else." He dropped his hand from her face, sliding his skeletal fingers back into the billowing sleeves of his black robe. "Especially Lucius."

"Yes, my Lord."

"You're excused."

Pansy quickly dropped to the floor once more before scrambling from the room as fast as she could. She wasn't sure what she'd done was right. She apparated from the Riddle Mansion back into her own home. Whatever the Dark Lord planned, she was certain it wouldn't be good for Draco.

When Pansy had left, Lord Voldemort paced back and forth in the parlor. Yes, that would have to be it. He hadn't known what to do with the Malfoy boy, but this new information made everything seem quite clear. The boy was perfectly capable of killing. He'd been trained rigorously in the dark arts throughout his childhood and had great natural magical potential. No, what kept him from executing his Lord's most hated rival was his own weak conscience, a setback that, given the boy's condition, would be easily remedied.

Smiling at his own cunning, the Dark Lord drew his wand and conjured an image. It grew more radiant and beautiful with each tweak of the Dark Lord's wand as he shaped his creation to perfection. His final adjustment made, he extended his consciousness into the image before him, possessing the form that was about to become Draco Malfoy's newest hallucination.

_x x x x x x x x x x x x x_

It was still two days before his seventeenth birthday, but Harry Potter was already packed. As soon as the clock stuck midnight on July 31st, he would be out the front door of the suburban hell his aunt and uncle called a home on his way to London. Today, however, was only July 28th, and the clock had just struck ten, signaling the beginning of an awkward nightly ritual.

Vernon Dursley hulking form slouched on the living room sofa, his hand reached out to click through channels until he reached the nightly news. His shriveled wife, Petunia, perched silently beside him, glaring at her nephew. Harry himself ignored the not so subtle hints telling him leave, and continued to lean casually in the doorframe, green eyes fixed on the TV.

He couldn't help himself. Every night was a new unexplainable atrocity: buildings collapsing, mass murders, fires bursting from nothing to consume cities. The list of disasters never seemed to end. Harry knew all too well who caused these horrors and stood, transfixed, every night to hear of his enemy's conquests.

Tonight's report began same as any other with the station's attempt-at-intense jingle. But it wasn't to be any normal night for Harry. The first story was a neighborhood fire in Kent that killed seven. Several similar disastrous occurrences followed. It wasn't until about half past the hour that Harry received a real shock.

"In London tonight, doctors at St. Thomas' Hospital are looking for the identity of a John Doe. The young man was found badly injured outside Westminster Cathedral early this morning. Police have not released many details, but one officer reported that a cryptic message was left beside his body reading, 'There is not ram for Isaac.'" The anchorman's voice raised almost as if he found the message amusing. Harry felt his stomach turn over. "If you have any information about this young man or know his identity, please contact the number on your screen."

A picture of the victim popped up onto the screen and Harry gasped. Dashing into the kitchen, he grabbed the cordless phone from the wall and ran back into the living room. Punching in numbers as fast as he could, he held the phone to his ear, waiting for the hotline to pick up.

"Yes," Harry snapped into the phone, answering the hotline worker's inane question, "I know who he is. His name is Draco Malfoy, and if you had any brains you'd get his picture off the air before someone tries to finish the job."

The woman on the other end of the line paused, taken aback for a moment. "Sir," she said, regaining her composure, "Can you be considered responsible for Mister Malfoy?"

"Excuse me?" Harry asked, confused by the question.

"Are you a relative of Mister Malfoy that can be considered responsible for him upon his release from the hospital?"

Harry was silent for a moment. If that 'cryptic message' was any indication, he'd been left to die by his own father, and would likely not survive for very long if left in the care of death eaters. Making up his mind, Harry answered, "Yes. I am."

Hanging up the phone, Harry turned to walk up the stairs. Petunia was glaring at him almost jealously. It was a good thing he was already packed. He dragged his trunk down the stairs and out to the curb. Hold out his wand hand, he was careful to jump back as the Knight Bus came tearing down the street, stopping in front of him.

"'Arry Potter!" Stanley, the pimpled conductor, called as he hopped off the bus to drag Harry's trunk on board.

"Hi Stanley." Harry groaned boredly.

"Now where're you off to tonight? Not runnin' away from anyone, eh?"

"No. Not this time." Harry climbed onto the bus. He had to laugh at Stanley's antics, no matter how annoying he was. "I'm heading to London. St. Thomas' Hospital."

"A muggle hospital, eh? You always were an odd one, 'Arry."


	2. From Fryingpan to Fire

Chapter Two: From Frying-pan to Fire

"Ron, dear, would you like a cup of tea?" Jane Granger set the last of her dishes to dry and popped her head into the living room where her husband, daughter and the young man she sincerely hoped would be her future son-in-law all sat watching the nightly news.

"Yes, ma'am," Ron answered, grinning toothily up at his girlfriend's mother. He'd spent the past two days visiting with the Grangers and getting to know Jane and George. He could tell Jane was scared for her daughter. She tried to act normal, but the fact that Ron and Hermione would be leaving to combat a cult of sociopathic mass murderers in a matter of days was obviously, and reasonably, wearing on her.

"Cream and sugar?" With Ron's nod, Jane walked back into the kitchen to put on the kettle, only to hear Hermione shriek from the living room. "What? What is it?" she called, racing back into the room.

Hermione sat on the blue floral sofa, mouth open, pointing at the TV.

"Sweet Merlin," Ron murmured, taking Hermione's hand, "Draco Malfoy."

George clicked off the TV and looked across the room sternly at his daughter. "You know that boy?"

"Yes." Hermione's voice was little more than a whisper. "He's in our year at Hogwarts." She looked desperately toward Ron, hoping he would take over the explanation.

"He's a death eater. He was the one who let the other death eaters into the school. Helped kill Dumbledore." His tone was hollow but changed as he drew his eyebrows together in question. "I don't know who'd do that to him though. None of our people would ever be so… brutal."

"Isn't it obvious?" Hermione asked, her brain kicking into gear. "That bit about Isaac. It's a biblical reference. God tells Abraham to sacrifice Isaac, his son, but at the last minute, God told him to stop and sent a ram to be sacrificed instead."

"Oh. So… you think Lucius did this?"

"Yeah." Hermione paused for a moment, pressing her palm to her mouth in consideration. "But if that's the case, he shouldn't be alive."

"Well… I guess they messed up."

"Which means…"

"He's still in danger."

Hermione let out a nervous giggle.

"How is that funny?" Ron had no love of Draco Malfoy, but could never be so cold-hearted as to laugh at his death.

"It's not." Hermione sobered. "I was just thinking. They're broadcasting his location to the entire muggle world, but how many death eaters would you bet have TV's?"

"Ahem." George cleared his throat, reminding the teenagers of his presence. "Well what are you planning to do about this?"

"George!" Jane glared at her husband. "Don't encourage them!"

"Encourage them to what, be good people? Help someone in need?"

"Get themselves hurt or… or…"

"Mum!" Standing up from her seat on the couch, Hermione walked over to her mother and wrapped her arms around her. "No one's going to get hurt or killed." She held Jane at arm's length and waited for the older woman to stifle her tears. When she was sure her mother was calmed, Hermione raced through the kitchen and upstairs to her bedroom.

"Hermione?" Jane called after her. "What are you doing? Hermione!"

Triumphantly, Hermione pounded back down the stairs and into the kitchen, grabbing the phone from the wall. She held a grubby and wrinkled piece of paper in her hand, smiling reassuringly at her mother. "I'm calling Harry."

_x __x__x__x__x__x__x__x__x__x__x__x__x_

Florescent lights burned through Draco's eyelids, waking him. He groaned and tried to move but his limbs felt like lead. Pain from his injuries seared through his body, the deep gashes in his legs and sides burning despite the numbing drugs that dripped into in veins from the pouch hung at his side. On his right, he heard someone else's breath and slowly turned his head.

In a hard plastic chair next to Draco's head, Harry sat, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, and watched the boy's laborious awakening. He smiled, slightly, welcoming Draco into consciousness and opened his mouth to speak. Before he could get a word out, though, the door opened and a rough looking pair stepped through the door. One was a woman in all black with short cropped hair and an unhappy grimace. The other, was a taller man with graying hair and a worn suit jacket.

"Are you Harry Potter?" The woman asked briskly.

Harry nodded, knitting his brow concernedly.

"I'm Detective Knox and this is my partner, Detective Crowley. We need to ask you a few questions."

Standing to face the woman eye to eye, Harry simply shrugged and said, "I don't think I'll be much help to you unfortunately."

"The statement you gave earlier said you were at home last night. Can anyone verify that?"

"My aunt and uncle." Harry smiled sadly. "I told you, I don't know anything and I can't help you. Can't you just let us be?"

The door opened again this time to reveal friendly faces. Ron and Hermione paused in the doorframe, alarmed by the unexpected guests in the room.

"Er, hi." Ron awkwardly stated.

"Excuse me, but I'm afraid I'll have to ask you two to wait outside." Detective Knox glared and Ron and Hermione cowed, backing out into the hallway. Turning sharply, the harsh woman opened a folder and shoved a piece of paper in Harry's face.

Harry gagged.

"We know you told the woman on the hotline that Mr. Malfoy was still in danger. How did you know that? If you refuse to answer our questions, we can have you charged with obstruction."

Harry knew the photo in front of his was simply meant to intimidate him. It took all his concentration to swallow his horror. There, Draco lay naked on the stone steps, arms spread wide. Blood was smeared all over his body in a ghastly spider-web of precise incisions. He could see the anger on the detective's face and realized just how long it would take for a muggle to inflict these injuries.

Looking up from the photo, Harry glared into the woman's eyes. "Everything you need to know is written," he placed one white, shaking finger on the words scrawled across the picture in Draco's blood, "is there." He plopped back down in his uncomfortable chair, grimacing as his bones met the hard plastic. He leaned in toward Draco's bed, resting his elbows on the rough, bleached linens.

"Perhaps if we brought him to the station, he'd be more cooperative." The male detective spoke up for the first time, stage whispering into his partner's ear. It was another pathetic ruse aimed at intimidation.

Harry was unresponsive.

Realizing their questions had failed, the two muggle detectives gave Harry one last hard look before opening the door and skirting around Ron and Hermione to leave.

"That's the third time someone's been here to harass me about this." Harry growled as Ron and Hermione came into the room and stood casually on the other side of the bed.

Ron was avoiding looking at Draco.

"They don't think you have anything to do with this?" Fretfully, Hermione crossed the room.

"I don't know. I suppose to them, everyone's a suspect."

"What did you tell them?" Ron was staring pointedly at a spot on the ceiling, as if refusing to admit and Draco Malfoy was the reason for his presence. "I mean, you can't just tell them about V-Voldemort."

"No, I just kept saying I didn't know anything. But how did you guys know I was here?"

"We saw the news." Hermione explained. "We called your house and your cousin picked up. I told him I'd curse him into oblivion if he didn't let me talk to you. But you'd already left. We just guessed you'd come here."

"Good guess." Harry laughed.

"But how did the nurses just let you come in? They gave us the fifth degree, going on about how only _family _was allowed in the ICU, and what business did we have with Mr. Malfoy anyways, and had we spoken with the police yet. Just on and on." Hermione added. "We had to pretend we needed to go to the bathroom to sneak by!"

Harry couldn't help but laugh, embarrassed as he was by what he was about to admit. "I, ah… had to tell them Malfoy was, well, my… boyfriend."

A disgruntled choking noise came from the bed. "The hell… wrong with you… Potter?" Draco half whispered, half groaned.

The three Gryffindors ignored him and silence filled the room.

Harry was deep in thought. He hadn't put much consideration into _why _exactly he'd hopped the Knight Bus and rushed to his enemy's bedside. Maybe he did have a hero complex. Whatever the reason for his rash actions, he now had a major dilemma.

"Umm, Ron, Hermione?" Harry mumbled, glancing over the half conscious Draco. "Could I talk to you in the hall?"

The three friends stepped out of the room, closing the door behind them.

"What is it?" Hermione asked.

The hall was busy with doctors and nurses running back and forth, chatting with one another or looking over charts. "I er…" He didn't want to be overheard by anyone so he lowered his voice. "I think we should take him back to Grimmauld Place."

Hermione gasped.

Ron just raised and eyebrow. "You're mental."

"I think we can trust him." Seeing the looks on his friends' faces, Harry tried to explain, "When Dumbledore died…" He swallowed, the fresh memory still causing him pain, "you could just see it. All over his face. He didn't want anyone to die. And I don't think he really wants Voldemort to… whatever Voldemort wants to do."

A pair of nurses went past, giving Harry curious looks at a pause in their conversation. Harry gulped, afraid they'd ask questions.

"Well anyhow, I talked to the police and they said they're still working on figuring out who's dog keeps attacking people," the nurses chatted as they continued on down the hall. "They come in here regular as clockwork…"

"Must be some big dog…"

Harry swallowed, and focused his attention back on his best friend, both staring at him expectantly. "Can't you just trust me? I know it seems illogical, to say the least, but I swear there's… more to Malfoy than meets the eye."

Hermione sighed and frowned, glancing toward Ron. "Well," she said, turning back to Harry, "you've rarely been wrong before."

"And if we keep him in the house, what harm could he possibly do?" Ron added, his inflection clearly stating that he didn't want an answer to his question.

"Alright. We'll leave as soon as possible." Harry decided, grasping the door handle. "Oh," he paused, turning back to his friends, "I don't think we should tell the rest of the Order about this either. They er… might not understand."

"Okay." Hermione murmured.

Ron nodded.

Pushing open the door, Harry gasped. Standing over Draco's bed, adding a pouch of murky yellow liquid to his IV, was a nurse. This in itself would be no surprise, but the fact that they'd been standing right outside the door the entire time made the situation slightly suspect. Her curly brown hair bobbed around her homely face as she turned to look at them. Her eyes made a familiar flick toward Harry's forehead.

"Oh, hi kids!" She smiled a little too warmly. "Just giving your friend a bit more medication to dull his pain." She made a beeline for the door without another glance at the three baffled teenagers crowding the small room. Her right hand was stuffed deeply into her pocket, clutching something long and thin.

A second before she reached the door, Harry grabbed her arm and spun her around. Pointing his wand at her forehead, he shouted "Obliviate!" and promptly shoved her out into the hall.

"What the hell was that?"

When the door closed Harry whipped around to Hermione. "Do you know what potion that is?" he asked, pointed toward Draco's I.V.

"Potion?" Ron started.

"Yes, Ron. I'd assume that witch was either from the Ministry or St. Mungo's."

"Hmm…" Hermione walked over to inspect the liquid. "I was reading about healing potions last winter break and a lot of them use St. John's Wart. That would give a potion that yellow color. The muddy quality might be a paste of unicorn or sphinx spleen to make it safe for injection into the blood stream."

"That's disgusting."

"So… won't kill me," Draco coughed. "Thanks for… the assessment… Granger." His eyes remained closed and his voice shook with pain."

"The potion's not the problem," Hermione retorted, her voice turning snappish.

"No, the problem is that the ministry knows you're here," Harry continued with far more calm, "and you, Malfoy, are wanted for conspiracy to commit murder. You'll spend the rest of your life in Azkaban unless we get you out of here before that potion takes effect."

"He won't be ready to move until he's fully healed, though!" Hermione squealed.

"Why don't we just apparate?" Ron asked.

"Because I'm still underage," Harry reasoned, "and the Ministry will know the second an underage wizard performs magic around Muggles. Not to mention that, honestly, I don't think Malfoy would survive side-along apparation."

For a moment, no one spoke. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the potion slowly seeping into Draco's veins. The hypnotic drip of the dense yellow liquid seemed like a clock, ticking away the seconds they had to escape.

"Well," Draco started loudly, breaking the worried silence, "We'll just have to walk." Pushing himself out of the bed, he half rolled onto the floor, barely landing on his feet. He hunched over, clutching the side of his bed, his face distorted in a hideous grimace.

"What are you doing?" Hermione yelped, rushing to his side.

"Leaving."

"Like hell you are!" She made a move to grab him as if to push him back onto the bed, but stopped, inches from touching him.

Malfoy smirked. "Never thought I'd see_ you_ afraid to hurt me, Granger." Straightening up, he plucked at the cotton hospital gown that hung loosely from his chest. "Now if we're going to be sneaking out of a crowded hospital on foot, I might just need some normal clothes." When none of the Gryffindors moved he added in a low monotone "_He subtly hinted to his three wand-carrying guests, hoping one might be clever enough to assist him…_"

Harry drew his wand reluctantly and muttered an unpracticed spell, "_Vestimentus_"

To the horror of all watching (and amusement of some), the light blue robe began to mutate into tight purple slacks and a neon orange button-up.

"WHAT KIND OF MAGICAL IDIOT ARE YOU!?" Draco fairly screamed, grabbing the wand nearest to him. Without uttering a spell, Draco quickly changed the slacks to black, and the shirt to a rich autumn gold. "Much better."

"Fantastic," Ron snarled, "Now give me back my wand."

Now fully and acceptably clothed, Draco led the way from the hospital room, nodding cheekily at a passing nurse. With some muggle money from Hermione's parents, the four caught a cab to Grimmauld place and took refuge in the home of Draco's ancestors, now owned by his most despised peer. Harry saw how Draco's eyes saddened at the wreckage of the once grand house around him and almost pitied him for how much he had lost. Reminding himself that Draco had had all the luxuries of home and family to which Harry had never been privileged, he turned away from those distant eyes and avoided Draco for the rest of the evening.

_x __x__x__x__x__x__x__x__x__x__x__x__x_

That night, Harry and Ron lay awake in the darkness of their room in Grimmauld Place, each lost in their own thoughts. Harry couldn't stop thinking about Sirius. Voldemort had used his own helpful intentions against him back then, so what was to stop him from doing it again? Was Draco sent specifically to spy on them? Or was Draco the one in danger because of Harry's actions? No scenario Harry could come up with seemed to quite fit, but for once, he wasn't sure he could trust his instincts.

"Harry?" Ron's voice echoed through the dark.

"Yeah?"

"If Voldemort really wanted Malfoy dead" Ron reasoned his voice quivering with exhaustion, "don't you think he'd be… well, dead?"

Perhaps this was just another of the Dark Lord's traps. The thought made Harry queasy and he rolled onto his side, hanging his head over the edge of the bed. He gulped air and let the nausea subside. His had just begun to calm when a rapid knock at the door sent him into a panic once again.

The door opened and Hermione stepped and strode quickly to his bedside. "Harry, wake up," she ordered, voice shaking, as she reached to shake him by the shoulders.

"I'm awake! I'm awake," Harry groaned, batting her away. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"It's Malfoy." By the dim light Harry could just see her silhouette, by his bed with fingers knotted together, tremble. "He's gone."


	3. May the Worst Man Win

Chapter Three: May the Worst Man Win

Kingsley Shacklebolt looked up at the dilapidated shack and tossed his half-eaten croissant into the gutter. His stomach growled, chastising him for favoring black, beady-eyed carrion over his own gut.

He had been woken up before the sun rose by the sharp peck of a little barn owl, perched innocently on his chest. After cursing himself for leaving the window open, he had opened the owl's letter and hurried to dress. He didn't work the night shift, but this early-morning call was definitely his territory.

Roman Crass had been his last big case. The notorious werewolf was wanted for his intentional lack of discretion during the full moon. His casualty count was up to nine after last month's escapade through the London streets. Kingsley had been tracking Crass for the past four months and had believed that within the month he would be able to close in on his quarry. According to this morning's disruptive letter, however, someone had beat Kingsley to the punch.

"How's it look inside?" Kingsley asked the perimeter officer.

"It's pretty messy." The fresh-faced young auror gulped hard, revealing his discomfort with the vulgarity of the crime scene.

Kingsley walked up the rickety front steps and through the door, leaving the young officer to nervously peel the flaking white paint from the porch rail. Crass was laid naked and spread-eagle on his sitting room floor, every inch of him caked with blood. Decay was thick in the hot August air and the septic smell of it clung to the inside of Kingsley's throat. He looked up to see his partner smiling at the disgust in his face.

"Well, you want your pigs fresh, you'd best be looking for a butcher." Abelard McCray gave a toothy grin and was rewarded with a snort from Kingsley.

"Have we got a time yet?"

"Seems about three days ago. This wasn't any quick job, Kings. Whoever did this took their sweet old time and planned out every step."

Kingsley leaned down over the body, covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve. Most of the blood on the body didn't seem to be coming from any external wound, but rather was smeared over the skin in thick, rough strokes.

"Is there a paintbrush?"

"What?"



"A paintbrush. And perhaps a bucket with blood in it." Kingsley moved his gaze down to Crass' hands. He took a cloth and began to rub away some of the crusted blood from between the dead wolf's outstretched fingers. "Sweet Merlin."

"What is it, Kings? You found something?" McCray stumbled back to lean over Kingsley's shoulder, abandoning his lackadaisical search for a bloodied paintbrush.

"Look here, between his fingers."

"What is that?"

"Nails. He's been nailed to the floor. And if you look closely at his torso it doesn't seem as if he has any external wounds at all."

"Then where did all this blood come from?"

"That's exactly what I'd like to know. Maybe lab will be able to tell us. Is there anything else I should see?" Kingsley looked up at McCray who bit his lip.

"One more thing. Maybe you'll be able to make sense of it."

Kingsley stood and followed his partner from the putrid sitting room into the kitchen. At first glance he didn't know what he was supposed to be looking at. The kitchen was perfectly tidy. The strong smell coming from the sitting room barely masked the equally pungent smell of lemon cleaner. The floor and counter were spotless, not a single dish sat in the sink and it seemed the rubbish had been emptied recently.

"So what am I supposed – " Kingsley cut out as McCray raised his hand and pointed one thick, shaking finger at the center table. The brown blood blended in nicely with the wood of the table so that the painted words were barely legible. Kingsley squinted and made out the sloppy words. "A beast can never be so cruel as a man, so artistically cruel. The tiger only tears and gnaws, that's all he can do."

"So? What do you make of that, Kings?"

"Whoever did this sure is proud of himself. Arrogant bastard. If we're lucky, he'll be so pleased with himself he won't be able to keep his mouth shut."

"And if we're not lucky?"

"Then he's just getting started, and we've got one hell of a case on our hands."

_x x x x x x x x x x x x x_

It wasn't long after dawn that the heavy front doors of Grimmauld place creaked and groaned as they slowly opened, just enough that Draco could slide into the darkened front hall. 

He sneezed as the dust he'd kicked up tickled his nose and his fingers slid from the door, sending it crashing back into place. In the kitchen below, his worried and helpless companions jumped to their feet and rushed, wands drawn up to greet whoever may have stumbled in upon them.

"Where in _hell_ have you been?!" Harry yelled, slamming Draco against the doors and pinning him with his forearm.

"Nowhere!" was the meek response from Harry's trembling victim, "I mean, I don't know!"

"Don't know?" Ron interjected. "How could you not _know_?"

"You've been gone for hours!" Hermione spat, joining the barrage, "We've been worried sick, not knowing if you've gone and gotten yourself killed or hurt or _betrayed _us! I think we deserve a little better explanation than 'I don't know!'"

"Okay!" Draco yelled, looking into Harry's eyes. The other boy slowly released him, backing up a few paces. "I haven't gone and betrayed you, and clearly I'm not killed," he said, rubbing his throat where Harry's arm had been. "I went to try and see if the Death Eaters are still holed up where I last remember."

Ron scoffed. "Bloody likely."

"Honest! I didn't want to drag you all off to the other side of the country if they've just up and relocated! You have to believe me; they tried to kill me! I wouldn't go running back to them! I'm putting my chips in with you lot, now."

For a moment no one spoke.

"Well?" Harry finally asked. "Are they still there?"

"Yeah. Out in a town called Little Hangleton."

"The Riddle Mansion." Harry interrupted.

"Yeah. I think they'll stay put for a bit."

Harry nodded. He hadn't decided whether to trust Malfoy's information or not, but it couldn't hurt to hear him out. Sighing, he gestured toward the kitchen. "Come have some breakfast. Just eggs, but it's not bad."

Draco followed his three cautious allies down into the kitchen and wolfed down a whole plate of slightly burnt scrambled eggs. It certainly wasn't up to a house elf's skills, but after several weeks of only the scraps Pansy could sneak by, Draco figured some poorly cooked eggs were far from the worst he could do. It was funny, he mused to himself, what almost having one's stomach torn out would do to one's view of acceptable cuisine.

When every last flake of dry egg was finished, Ron and Hermione headed up to their rooms to change. Draco pulled Harry aside.

"Potter," he whispered, making sure the other two were out of earshot, "I'm not here by chance. Or because of your pity. The Dark Lord's got a real fixation on you and you know I can help."

"And how, exactly, do you plan on helping, Malfoy? You're hardly well enough to go traipsing across the countryside, no matter what you seem to think," Harry sneered.

Draco smiled gently. "You just have to put a little trust in Him. I did, and I came out alright."

"In who?"

"He told me not to worry, even though I'd come close to death. I did. I almost died. But you came for me. I found my place, just like he said."

"Like _who _said!? Malfoy, who are you talking about?"

Draco, the same serene smile pasted to his face, took Harry's hands in his, leaned close to his ear and whispered, "_God._"

_x x x x x x x x x x x x x_

"So apparently, Crass was tops on You-Know-Who's hit list." Abelard McCray slapped a file down on Kingsley's desk causing a few loose notes to flutter to the ground.

"The top?" Kingsley raised an eyebrow at his partner. McCray was prone to hyperbole and Kingsley had learned not to trust the radical statements that slipped from the other auror's loose jaw, especially on hot June days when his patience was already worn thin from hard work.

"Okay, so not the top, _per se_, but getting up there."

"Uh huh." Kingsley flipped open the file and thumbed through its pages. It had been two days since the discovery of Roman Crass' defiled corpse and the two aurors had been kept busy with a multitude of other projects. One dead werewolf was not top priority from the Ministry's point of view. Kingsley, however, knew better and had been working overtime just to collect a few small details. As he looked over McCray's file on Crass, he plucked up a heavy book from his desk and handed it to his partner.

McCray took the book from Kingsley's hands and looked it over. It was a tattered blue hardcover with gold writing that had begun to peel away. "The Brothers Karamazov?" McCray asked with skepticism.



"I asked Madam Pince to do a little research for me. I book marked our quote."

Sure enough, when McCray flipped to the marked page, the words found beside Crass stood highlighted in yellow on the aged page. "So… I don't get it."

Kingsley sighed and closed the manila folder that held far more interesting information than the rehashed explanation he was about to offer McCray. "Well, like I said. Seems like he's boasting his own cruelty. A triumph of man over beast. So, we can bet our killer's human at least, and from what you just showed me, probably a death eater."

"And seemingly quite literate!"

Shaking his head at McCray's offbeat humor, Kingsley turned back to the file. "Feeding information to the Ministry? Through whom?"

"Wyllam Scott fessed up a few hours ago."

"That shit who's been taking credit for half the nabs since February?"

"Yeah. Turns out Crass was his big source. Puts Scott in a bit of a pickle, eh?" McCray sat down on the desk and snatched the folder from Kingsley's hands. "Said he met Crass at a bar, of all places and the two have been quite chummy ever since."

"And he just out and told the higher-ups what he's been up to? That doesn't sound right."

"They've been conducting an investigation."

"Because of Crass?"

"No, I don't think. It started before Crass died. I guess just because Scott's a right jackass." McCray chuckled at his own joke.

"So, did they find out any other interesting bits of information about our underhanded colleague?" Kingsley asked, taking Hogwarts' old copy of Dostoyevsky and flipping back to the marked page.

"Apparently he had a bit of a run-in with Grayback about two months ago."

"He didn't – "

"No, he didn't go canine on us, but he did rack up a few bruises. Wouldn't tell no one what the big wolf on campus wanted 'til now. Seems the wolves had it in for Scott's source too. He claims he didn't tell 'em nothing but say they did find out? Maybe we're not looking at a Death Eater here."



"… So artistically cruel…" Kingsley mused more to himself than to McCray. "Read it in context and it's not so much mocking the animal as… damning the man."

"What're you saying, Kings?"

"I don't think this was a wolf, but I'm not so sure our old boy is proud of himself either."


End file.
